Rounding the Corner
by 90TheGeneral09
Summary: From Season 7- Episode 11: The Good Soldier. A high school friend of Kevin Harkin's returns to tell his side of the story, while fighting a losing battle against inner demons of his own.
1. Chapter 1- The FNGs

**Chapter I- The FNGs**

* * *

You could see them a mile off, the new soldiers on the base. A walled, heavily-defended compound built a few miles outside of Baghdad, Fort Berrineau, or just Fort Bear as most of the troops called it, seemed to be receiving new arrivals every day of the month. This week an nearly entire platoon of Bravo Company, part of 1st Battalion of the 252nd Armored Regiment, was being replaced. The platoon leader and his platoon sergeant were staying, as were some of the squad leaders, but the rest of those and almost all of the grunts would be new guys. Not all were true FNG's- some were coming back for a second or even third tour, and many at least had some solid time in the service stateside.

But the rest… fucking new guys all the way. Private First Class Jeff LaSalle, sitting near the driver's hatch of his M1A1 Abrams tank and writing a letter home, whooped when he looked up and saw. There were about five or six of them, all loaded down with green duffel bags, still wearing their standard ACU's, and from the overall look of it straight out of basic training and completely lost.

Hearing the shout as LaSalle got the attention of the rest of his tank's crew and pointed, the group of new soldiers wandered over to Charlie Company's motor pool- a lofty title for what even a year after its establishment remained little more than a few steel roofs, a lot of parked M1's, M2 and M3 Bradleys and Humvees, and a few very ugly barracks that had no air conditioning at all. That was what passed for Charlie's territory on base, and the men working on their tanks that afternoon were not at all pleased to see the new guys invading it.

"Hey," one of them called, "you guys know where we can find Bravo Company? They said Bravo was over here somewhere."

Leaning forward as he put his letter aside, Jeff scratched his nearly-bald head and frowned with exaggerated effort, as if he was pondering the matter deeply. It was all the men around him could do to keep from busting up laughing; Jeff LaSalle was a riot when it came to messing with the stupid new guys.

"Bravo Company… Bravo Company…" Jeff said, as if trying to remember something important. After a few moments of silence in which he knew the new guys were just sweating their asses off in the afternoon sun, Jeff's features brightened and he looked up and over at his tank's loader, Private Henry Snipe, who was checking the links on the M1's right treads. "Hey, Snipe!"

"Yo, dog," Snipe said without looking up.

"You heard of a fuckin' Bravo Company in this battalion? These guys say they're lookin' for Bravo."

"I ain't heard of no Bravo, LaSalle, unless they mean that pussy infantry shit downrange."

LaSalle then turned to the new guys again and called over, "Hey! You guys fuckin' infantry?"

The six of them all looked at each other, shifting their heavy duffle bags and M-16 rifles a little. "Yeah," the one said, "We're 11 Bravo's."

An outburst of laughter followed this revelation, and the four or five tank crews under that particular shelter were now paying their full attention to the show. Jeff gestured behind him and said, "Well, you see, girls, this is an armored unit. Us Charlie Company guys weren't quite stupid enough to sign up as 11 bang-bangs and fucking walk everywhere."

Then he jumped down from the tank, walking over to the group of new guys who, aware now that they were being made fun of, eyed him warily.

Jeff ran a hand over the blonde stubble that had once been a full head of shiny, almost silvery-blonde hair, grinning as he closed to within three feet of the new infantry guys. "Hey, I think you guys might need to check your shit. You know, make sure nothing's missing before you get over to Bravo lookin' like shit. We don't want that, do we?"

"Uh, I think we're good, man," one of the new soldiers said. "We had to unpack all our shit and go over a checklist when we got on base."

"That so?" Jeff said, his grin only getting wider. Then he turned around, facing the watching group of tank crewmen. "Hey, guys!" Jeff shouted joyously. "Roll on the infantry!"

"Roll on the infantry!" The roar went up, and in seconds almost every man in 1st Platoon of Charlie Company was rushing over to the new guys, snatching their duffel bags away, tossing them around, and switching the new guys' M-16's. Their attempts to fight back were swatted aside by the numbers of the tankers, and Jeff seized one duffle bag from the private who'd started this thing by being stupid enough to walk up to an armored platoon in the first place. Slipping off the carabineer that kept it shut, Jeff flipped the duffel bag over and started to empty it out; other soldiers of 1st Platoon saw this and started following his example. "Well, now," Jeff exclaimed, "Let's just see if anything's missing!" Gear, clothes, and all manner of equipment and personal items tumbled out. Jeff laughed, hardly the only one doing so, but suddenly stopped when a pair of angry hands struck him on the shoulders, and he and the infuriated private crashed to the dusty, sandy ground.

"You motherfucker!" the private was yelling. "You fuckin' motherfucker!" Jeff snarled and reached out, grabbing some heavy object that had fallen out of the bag, meaning to hit the private in the head with it. But when he looked back up to steady his aim, the private was just staring at him.

"Jeff?" the kid said. Firmly built into a soldier from the body of a high school soccer player, he still had the same dark hair- albeit much shorter- and the same rounded face. All this time later, it was almost impossible to tell it was him. Jeff started to whoop for a different kind of joy, but the sound never got out of his mouth. Two Charlie guys had rushed over and tackled the new guy, preparing to work him over. "It's a fuckin' joke, you new motherfucker! Shut the fuck up and take a joke!" one of them, Fredericks, shouted with annoyance.

"No! Fredericks, let him up," Jeff said, then turned his attention to the rest of his platoon. "Hey, First Platoon! Let's hold up a minute here."

When the roughhousing had largely stopped, Jeff pointed down at the private who was still being held by Specialist Fredericks and Private Johnson. "This here's Kevin Harkin, teammate of mine from the soccer team I was on back in Philly. He's a buddy of mine from back home and he took a lot of shit from his old man signin' up. What say we give his 11 bang-bang buddies a break?"

Snipe, standing nearby, scoffed good-naturedly. "Shit, I don't fuckin' care if you and this dude butt-fucked each other after your gay-ass soccer games every Friday night." This drew some guffaws from the men; most of them didn't care much for Europe's idea of football. Then Snipe glanced at one of the privates who'd also joined the 29th Infantry today. "Besides," he said adding his Mississippi drawl in full, "I don't much care for no nigger-lovin' blood traitors."

That just about did it. The black private went for Snipe's neck, and a full-scale battle nearly began as the Bravo and Charlie guys either chose sides or tried to keep the two apart. Then somebody said, "Oh, shit," and a moment later, "Good afternoon, sir!"

First Lieutenant George Billings, executive officer of Alpha Company, had been passing by and was now standing just a few feet from the cluster of soldiers, piles of gear and thrown fists still frozen in midair. Billings was an easygoing man most of the time, well-respected by enlisted men in 1st Battalion for being sensible under fire and fair at all times. But he was an officer, and that meant right now he was clearly trying to figure out what the hell had just been going on.

"Anything I need to know here, fellas?" Billings said, his hazel-brown eyes scanning the group warily under his tan Kevlar helmet. "Looked like there was a clusterfuck getting ready to happen."

Billings then turned his glare to Jeff, who standing there in his tan t-shirt, desert camo pants and boots, suddenly looked much less happy about the situation. "It looked like PFC LaSalle might have been asking for another Article 15."

There was an awkward pause, as the Charlie soldiers frantically tried to think of an excuse, and the new Bravo guys tried to figure out what they did and didn't want to say here. On one hand, if they told this lieutenant everything, the men from Charlie who'd been messing around with them probably wouldn't do it again; at least not for a while. But then the armor crewmen would hate these new guys for real, and not just be playing around. And considering they'd all be doing patrols off-base in Baghdad together real soon, that was hardly a good way to start a working relationship with men you'd be risking your life with.

Finally, it was Private Barry Southall, the black soldier whom Snipe had angered, who broke the silence. Setting a hand on Snipe's shoulder, Southall looked at the officer and said, "Actually, sir, these fine men from Charlie Company were just introducing themselves to a few of us Eleven-Bravo's going to Bravo. Private Snipe here was warning me, due to my ancestry, against possible racism on the base."

"And PFC LaSalle was telling us that we might have to expect some rough treatment from the vets in our unit," Private Harkin said, picking up where Southall left off. "He was very generous in offering to simulate that for us, so we'd be ready if it happened."

A silence. Lieutenant Billings was clearly trying to figure out what the hell to think; he could tell these men were bullshitting him, but what was so confusing was how they seemed to be doing it together. Finally, he gave up. Neither group was even in his company. Fuckit, Billings thought with resignation. Let this Charlie clowns be their own XO's problem. Out loud, Billings shook his head and sighed. "Fuckin' privates," he said, and walked away, back towards Alpha Company.

The twenty or so men stayed silent until the lieutenant was out of earshot, then almost as one burst out laughing. Corporal Sarov, a tall, dark-haired soldier who was the junior-ranking tank commander in 1st Platoon, looked at Private Southall in amazement. "Made an interesting choice there, new guy. One word from you and they could've NJP'd this whole platoon."

Southall still looked wary, but was making an effort to keep calm. "Didn't seem like a good way to start off my first meeting with guys already on-base." Then he nodded towards Harkin, who now stood beside his best friend from home. "And me and Harkin were battle-buddies in basic. Anybody who knows him has to be all right." Men nodded; it was a very sensible thing to say, and spoke volumes of what the black soldier from Georgia thought of the white one from Pennsylvania.

"You guys gotta know we were only fucking around," Sarov said. "If we'd wanted to really fuck up your day we'd have done it."

"We do this shit all the time, man," another soldier in Charlie said. "New guys comin' downrange to Bravo, Alpha, Delta- even Charlie- gotta get a little present from us." The soldier grinned. "We just like to say hi."

The six new soldiers nodded; they understood well enough. From the look Alpha Company's XO had given them, Charlie Company's men were indeed known for doing things like this to new soldiers. He'd looked at them like they were fuckups… but if so, fuckups too competent to outright kick out of the service or even do much about. It made each of the new infantrymen wonder how these Charlie tankers were on their combat patrols. From the scarred- yet absolutely battle-ready- look of their tanks and Humvees, they were probably not known for being imitative Boy Scouts.

Finally the guys from 1st Platoon helped the Bravo soldiers pack their bags again, and Corporal Sarov gave them proper directions to Bravo Company's compound down the seemingly-endless lines of vehicles, buildings and tents. Before they left, Private Snipe was properly introduced by his tank commander, Sergeant Mike Wallace. Setting a hand on the lanky, freckled Mississippian's bony shoulder, Wallace grinned a little and said to the new guys, "Now, Snipe here may _seem_ like your stereotypical, sister-fucking Deep South racist. But he is, in fact, _completely_ racist and a cousin-fucker to boot."

Wallace's gunner, Corporal John Wells, said with a smirk, "True fuckin' story dudes? He fucked his cousin once, when he was, like, thirteen or something."

"_Four_tayne," Snipe drawled.

Over the laughter, Wells said, "No, seriously. But see a picture of her sometime and you'll know why. You'd have done it too, man. Don't kid yourself. They must have some hot-ass females for relatives in Mississippi."

"Shit, dog," Jeff laughed, "I've seen that picture. I beat my meat to it every night. How the fuck you think I stay so fuckin' happy?"

Quieting the men down, Sergeant Wallace added, "Private Snipe has had to conceal his racist, cousin-fucking tendencies so Uncle Sam doesn't kick him out of this man's Army. This is true. But he gets away with it in Charlie because he's the best fuckin' loader we've got. Set a new company record when he was in basic at Fort Knox."

Looking around at the new guys getting ready to head off to Bravo Company, Wallace said, "Just remember that, guys. Snipe may hate the color of Southall's skin for reasons none of us living in the 21st century can hope to comprehend. But he's a kickass loader, and he'll risk his life for Southall under fire, the same as he would for anybody else."

"We're all brothers here, 'specially in Charlie," Snipe said. "All this bullshit goes out the window the minute we roll off-base."

With that, a few hand-shakes and slaps on the back were exchanged, and the two groups separated. Kevin and Jeff, grinning and gripping each other in bear hugs, promised to stay in touch. Jeff added something else, though, a serious piece of advice before he returned to writing that letter home. "Keep your head down when you're anywhere the ragheads could see you. And when you go into the city, that rule doubles. Don't try to be a hero, and don't volunteer for _shit_. Just stay alert and stay alive." Those were, almost verbatim, a repeating of the words that were spoken to him when Jeff LaSalle had arrived to be a tank driver in Charlie Company.

After getting jumped by his whole squad and having his shit stashed in a footlocker in another platoon, Jeff had recovered everything and gotten to his bunk by close to midnight. Sergeant Wallace had been waiting for him, and with Wallace back at the tank and safely out of earshot, Jeff had essentially repeated his words to his best friend from high school. They'd graduated a year apart, but had been as close a pair as anybody at their school. Jeff's decision to enlist had certainly influenced Kevin's, and it was a great joy to the both of them that they were stationed in the same battalion for Kevin's first and Jeff's second Iraq tour.

As he rejoined his buddies at the sand-colored M1 tank named "War Hog" and with a red Arkansas "Razorback" on the turret, Jeff said a silent prayer for his friend. The Iraq war was rough over here; the fighting against the insurgents was in full swing, and men died every day. But as Jeff knew personally, it was only worse at home.

The public, for the most part, either didn't care or didn't- couldn't understand. Jeff had claimed it was the Army sending him back, but the truth was he'd volunteered for a second tour after just a few months back home, drilling with an Army Reserve unit. He couldn't stand trying to explain to people who'd never even seen anything sandy besides a beach in their lives what Iraq even looked like as a country, let alone what it was like to fight there. Jeff was more distant with his old friends and family than he'd ever been in the past; a barrier of understanding existed now that simply hadn't been there before.

Jeff hoped things would work out better for his friend, that he'd come home safe from his tour and never feel the need to go back. Jeff hoped Kevin would do his time and feel free, at peace, enough to walk away. Jeff hoped Kevin wouldn't end up like his friend, wearing a V-device on his Army Commendation Medal but unable to stop thinking about the friends he had overseas anytime he went home. After all he'd went through just to join, Kevin Harkin deserved better than that.


	2. Chapter 2- Combat Patrol

**Chapter II- Combat Patrol**

* * *

As it turned out, for his first week Kevin did pretty good. His first few patrols Kevin went off-base looking ready to shit himself, and like no small number of men before him, when he first came under fire he all but literally did. Patrols went into Baghdad every single day; there were neighborhoods to sweep, blockades to man, and a general presence to maintain. The Iraqi government was shattered; order in the city of Baghdad was all but nonexistent if an American with an M-16 wasn't present… and sometimes that just meant a different kind of chaos.

Kevin Harkin, being assigned to the 252nd, ended up being very grateful he spent the majority of his days in Baghdad escorting those big, beautiful M1 tanks. The massive Abrams tank required infantry support wherever it went; on the roads the infantry kept up in Humvees; in the narrower, more confined areas of the city they went along on foot. The M1 was so tough Kevin saw one run over an IED and have not one of its crew take a bruise; the track was blown off, though, and Kevin and many other soldiers with Bravo and Charlie spent a very uncomfortable half-hour guarding the stopped convoy while the parts were found and the track fixed.

But being with mechanized infantry was a curse as well as a blessing; Kevin learned very quickly from his own experience and from listening to men around him that tanks were as interesting to the enemy as they were to their own side. The insurgents in Baghdad feared the M1 tanks, and rightly so- but they were not stupid, and knew that armor in an urban area would always be at a disadvantage, and the infantry escorting the tanks would suffer accordingly.

The battle against chaos in the city of Baghdad was nearly impossible to imagine a solution to; the men rarely talked about it on a strategic scale. Not only was doing so too depressing, but it was the domain of officers, high-ranking ones at that. Men whose combat days were over if they'd ever existed. They never had to go out and actually execute these strategies on the tactical, block-by-city-block level.

On Kevin Harkin's seventh day in Baghdad, a few months into Jeff LaSalle's second tour in Iraq, the convoy he was with ran over a taxi. While tanks did crush things, even cars, accidentally on occasion, this was different. Jeff had done it on purpose.

There had been five men by the car, clearing out what little there was left to steal from a local store of some kind, broken into and abandoned a month or two back. They surrendered promptly- and sensibly- when set upon by the armored patrol; three tanks and supporting infantry. When the Bravo Company lieutenant leading the patrol radioed in, he was told to crush the car as punishment; the Army had no jails in which to imprison Iraqi citizens.

And so Kevin Harkin, standing off to the side of the narrow city street, had ended up watching as "War Hog", the tank driven by his buddy from high school, ran over the battered white sedan and backed up over it for good measure. When the tank was done, the car looked like a flattened aluminum can. The owner, staring in shock, had spoken in Arabic briefly, a very bleak look on his face. Then he turned away and wandered off. It would turn out later the man had been a taxi driver; the car had been his livelihood.

But just minutes later, as they neared the end of the block, a call came in for armored support. Insurgents in a tall building about a mile across the city had been harassing American units with sniper fire, but informants had also indicated they might have RPG's or even an antitank gun. It was possible they were trying to lure a tank into range so they could hit it.

Lieutenant Herrmann crouched close to the end of the street, looking around the corner and towards the distant building. It was in range for a competent sniper, less so for an RPG. But the insurgents didn't just have the old RPG-7; they had some newer, meaner toys too. And who said they didn't have somebody waiting closer with an antitank weapon, something a little more able to hurt an Abrams or its crew?

They had to go around this street corner- that much was certain. The question was whether the infantry or the tanks would go first.

Keying his mike, Herrmann hailed Sergeant Mike Wallace, the lead tank's commander. "Mike," he said, "You think you can get a fix on anybody around that corner if they try and nail you?"

Wallace paused inside the tank; he wasn't sure what to say. Then he called down to his driver. "Hey, LaSalle- think we'd be good for going first around that corner?"

LaSalle's voice came back reluctant. "I dunno, Sarge- once I got us in view I can't get us back out again, not if any of the other tanks follow up."

Wallace thought about it, but ultimately went the way he knew he had to. His driver, he could tell, was thinking much the same way; a good NCO, Wallace trusted his crew and always gave his driver special consideration. You never ignored the opinion of the man who was responsible for making the 40-ton Abrams go places; he saw things you didn't and understood things you couldn't.

Finally, Wallace said, "I think we oughta get some infantry around the corner first, LT." He didn't mention the cold-hearted but sound logic that went behind that; an M1 was more valuable than any one or two infantrymen, and everybody knew it. There was no need to verbalize the fact that the Army could more easily replace a few dead infantry guys than a blown-up Abrams tank.

Two squads darted men around the street corner, taking up positions down the street. "All right, War Hog," said Herrmann, "1st and 3rd Squad say you're good to move up. Move in and lay down suppressing fire on the snipers in that building; how copy?"

"Solid copy," Wallace said on the radio. "Moving to engage targets."

"All right," he then said to his driver, "get us moving, LaSalle! We got some ass to kick."

LaSalle got the M1 rolling, peering out of the partially-open driver's hatch as the tank's hull emerged from behind the house on the corner, then began churning the ground beneath it as LaSalle turned.

"RPG! RPG!" one of the squad leaders suddenly called, and LaSalle stopped the tank. They were already around the damn corner, and Wells would have an easier time sighting the target if the tank was still. He couldn't quite see where the RPG gunner was, but then there was a flash, and a streak of smoke from an apartment building about a hundred yards down the street. The shot went high, smashing into the wall behind the M1. "Firing!" Wells shouted, and the 7.62mm coaxial machine gun belched. In just moments, the entire back porch and windows of the apartment where the RPG gunner had fired from was shredded, and 2nd Squad's leader reported seeing at least two infantry go down.

Then, Wallace shouted, "LaSalle- move it up!" As the M1 got rolling, the infantry steadily moving up beside it and the other two tanks following behind started exchanging fire with the insurgents holding the large building, still about 1,000 meters off. Once they'd closed to about 800, Wallace shouted down to his loader, "Snipe! Get me a round in the breech, standard HE!"

"Standard HE!" Snipe echoed, and in two seconds flat he called, "Ready to fire!"

"Take it when you're ready, Wells," Wallace said. A moment later, still moving the tank up the street at a steady pace, LaSalle felt every inch of the M1 shake as Wells fired. Flame and thunder exploded from the barrel, and an instant later the upper right corner of the tall office building just wasn't there anymore. A huge cloud of dust went up as debris- and the remains of a few snipers and an RPG team- came raining down.

Down in the street, American soldiers roared out their approval. "Yeah, get some!" Wells shouted. "You see that shit, Sarge?"

Wallace's voice came back sarcastic; "No, Wells, I missed it. What just happened?"

"I think Wells just got some, Sarge," LaSalle added. "Can me and him trade places sometime? All I fuckin' get to do is run over taxis."

"LaSalle, try remembering that we generally only run over cars when we have to."

"What, like, they _belong_ to people and shit?"

"What would you think if an Iraqi ran over your car at home with a T-54?" Wallace asked.

The driver's reply was his in his usual good spirits. "I'd say he had some balls for doing it; then I'd go kick his ass."

The chatter between War Hog's crew had been with their mikes off, thankfully; officers generally disapproved of such banter in the combat zone. In any case, Lieutenant Herrmann's voice cut them off then. "All right, everybody- we've still got to link up with the Marines down the street. They're gonna clear out the building while we provide armor support."

Not a shot was fired as the three M1s and their supporting Humvees and infantry closed the remaining distance to the open space of the office building's parking lot. After seeing some five or six of their comrades- that many, at least- meet a very unpleasant fate at the hands of no less than three M1 tanks, it seemed likely that the insurgents were withdrawing for now. The Marines greeted the Army tankers enthusiastically; anything big, noisy, and able to kill lots of Taliban was definitely a plus in their eyes.

The rest of the patrol went smoothly- in the relative sense of the word. Some sniper fire still went on, and one more team of RPG gunners had to be dispatched later in the afternoon. But by the time they started to head back, things, overall, had gone well. No one in the patrol had even been seriously today. Riding with the hatch propped open for a breeze, LaSalle grinned as he trailed the leading M1 down one of Baghdad's main highways. No local transport came anywhere near the convoy, and they eyed the powerful main guns of the M1 tanks with respect. "If the day requires minimal use of an M1, it is good, Confucius say," LaSalle said. "But stuck tank make big noise, go nowhere."

"LaSalle, will your French ass please shut up?" Wallace said, looking down the road. "I see some kinda problem up ahead."

Just then, LaSalle swore; the Humvee up ahead had stopped, and LaSalle had to brake hard to avoid crushing the smaller vehicle. Everyone in both the tank and the Humvee held their breath as the M1 ground to a halt; it stopped just short. Another four, maybe five feet and it would have just climbed right up the back of the Humvee.

Calling through the open hatch, LaSalle said, "Hey! What the fuck's the holdup?"

The Humvee's .50 cal gunner turned his head and shouted back, "Got a fuckin' truck flipped over! Fuckin' thing's on its side ahead of us!"

Wallace stood up, fully opening his own hatch. "Fuck," he muttered, then raised his voice and spoke to the rest of his crew. "Yeah, I see it. Dumb shit is blocking up half the highway."


	3. Chapter 3- Never Volunteer

**Chapter III- Never Volunteer**

* * *

It took close to twenty minutes to get the one interpreter in the convoy up to the truck and find out what was going on. The civilian driving it chattered away in a strange dialect of Arabic, only becoming more excited when he noticed the tanks in the stopped convoy. Finally, when battalion called asking why in hell the convoy wasn't back yet, Lieutenant Herrmann told them. Not even a minute later, he got orders to get moving. To shove the truck off the highway, to run it over if that's what it took. But no matter what, the orders from 1st Battalion headquarters were clear: get the convoy rolling.

LaSalle poked his head out of the hatch just in time to see the LT approaching, waving at him and starting to give instructions on moving the truck off the highway… and in the corner of his eye, the .50 cal gunner on the Humvee in front go down. The soldier just let go of the gun and tumbled down into the Humvee's interior- a moment later the men in the convoy heard the shot. A moment later, a shot clanged off the driver's hatch of War Hog.

"Shit!" LaSalle exclaimed, ducking and slamming the driver's hatch shut. "Where'd that come from?"

"Far away!" Wallace said tersely. "He was hit before we heard the shot!"

On the radio, "All Hunter-Victors, we are Oscar-Mike! I say again, we are Oscar Mike! Keep your head down and get your asses moving!"

The tanks and Humvees raced west. Out of the city and back to Fort Bear, they ended up having to race some four or five men to the medics. Most of them made it.

Later, after dark, LaSalle was halfway under War Hog, working on cleaning out the wheels and tracks, when Sergeant Wallace suddenly said loud enough for the rest of his crew to hear, "Evening, LT."

"Good to see your guys made it back, Sergeant," First Lieutenant Carroll Eastrise's voice came back. The commander of Charlie Company's 3rd Platoon was a quiet, sensible, and even-tempered officer- quite an odd man, at first glance, to lead the rambunctious men of one of Charlie's four platoons. But Eastrise was a fair man, and his judgment sound. The men trusted him. Normally he did his best to be easygoing on base, especially with men just back from combat patrols- he knew firsthand how stressful those were. But right now, even under the tank and unable to see the lieutenant's expression, LaSalle could tell there was a strange tension in the officer's voice. It sounded like the voice of a man about to say something he wished he didn't have to.

"Is your driver here, Sergeant? I'll need to talk with him."

"That's him under the tank, sir."

Now Eastrise shifted his boots a little, glancing downward. "Hey, LaSalle. Come on out, Private."

"Yessir," LaSalle answered, wiping his hands free of grease with a rag and crawling out. Standing up, he snatched up his desert camo blouse and zipped that back on. "What can I do for you, sir?"

"Come on, LaSalle. Walk with me back to the medic's tent."

They walked in silence for a few minutes, heading for the medical complex set up for all of 1st Battalion. Eastrise didn't say much, and LaSalle didn't ask- he knew already that someone he was familiar with had been hit today. He calmed himself after some effort, though; surely, at least, it couldn't be Kevin Harkin. There could not be a God so cruel as to kill an American soldier, a nice, all-American boy like Kevin, not even one full week into his first deployment. Maybe another of his buddies, with another patrol, had got hit today. Maybe that buddy would be going home early. But whoever it was, Jeff LaSalle assured himself it couldn't possibly be Kevin. Nobody's luck ran out that fast.

Right?

But finally, they stood outside the tent. LaSalle felt himself get dizzy as Lieutenant Eastrise started to explain how Private Kevin Harkin had volunteered to get on the .50 cal that morning when the regular gunner in his squad got the shits. Kevin, knowing only what he'd been taught of the .50 caliber in basic, had done well and kept calm all through the day, and Lieutenant Herrmann, also riding in the lead Humvee, had been impressed. Jeff barely heard Eastrise, speaking as softly and gently as he could without sugarcoating the truth, explain that Kevin had been one of the men hit by sniper fire while the convoy had halted on that Baghdad highway that afternoon.

Finally, Jeff couldn't take any more. He cut off his platoon leader, blurting out, "Is he okay, sir? I mean… he's all right. Isn't he?"

Eastrise just looked back at him. "Take as much time as you need, LaSalle. I'll be here if you need me."

Jeff stared at his platoon leader in the dark; that could hardly be taken to imply anything good had happened to Kevin. Images flashed before his eyes, unbidden- Jeff and Kevin playing soldiers in the woods behind the LaSalle house on Sunday afternoons… Kevin, with his dark brown hair, coming up behind Jeff at his twelfth birthday party and pulling at Jeff's mess of shiny blonde hair just to see Jeff jump up, yelling in surprise. Jeff picking Kevin up after school on many afternoons in high school- and Jeff, letting Kevin come over and have someplace to cool down after one of many fights with his dad over joining the Army. They'd known each other almost their whole lives, growing up in a perfectly average Philadelphia suburb that bordered on some of the city's worst slums. They'd played and won countless games of soccer together, graduated one year apart in high school; they'd even gone on to fight the war together.

There was no delaying it any longer, though. Jeff stepped inside the tent. One of the doctors caught his eye, and the sad look in his eyes said he'd had to do this more times than he ever would have cared to count. Jeff had no idea what the man's rank was- doctors often preferred to wear their own outfits, whatever suited their work best, rather than the Army's ACUs or desert uniforms- but he knew this man would have the information he needed.

"I'm looking for a soldier, got hit in my convoy today. Kevin Harkin?"

The doctor sighed, putting down his clipboard. He gently but firmly pushed Kevin down on an empty cot, taking an empty crate and sitting down on it. "Private Harkin was hit by sniper fire, son. You knew that, right?"

Cold fear rushed into Jeff. _Oh, shit. Oh, God, no… not Kevin. Not now_.

But he managed to nod, mechanically answering, "Yes, sir."

The doctor hated having to say this, but he knew beating around the bush would just hurt the young soldier more. This boy deserved to know.

"Private Harkin took a round to the neck; it hurt him bad. Your guys rushed him and the others who got hit by the snipers in here, and you did good with that. But Harkin was dying when he got in here, son. All we could do was give him some morphine, let him go out less painfully."

A pause; the doctor seemed unsure of what else to say. The young blonde private was staring down at the floor of the tent, blinking furiously and fighting to hold back tears. The older man finally said, "We did all we could have. I, uh… I heard from the medic who was with him that Private Harkin wanted a Jeff LaSalle to have his tags."

The doctor reached into his coat pocket, and Jeff held out his hand. The two steel dog tags clinked a little, the beads of the metal chain pooling around them. The tags were partly stained with a dull, rusty red that had to be dried blood. Jeff nearly vomited. It wasn't because he was seeing blood- he'd seen it before plenty of times. It was who it belonged to that was making him feel sick. That was what bothered him.

"Wh-where is he?" Jeff asked. He somehow felt like he needed to see Kevin again. It wouldn't help- wouldn't change what had happened. But he needed to see.

The doctor pointed as he got up, returning to his other duties. "He's over there, in the far corner. None of the men here are gonna mind you being here, son. They're all gone, too."

Jeff suddenly realised how still and quiet it was in this tent. And, with a sickening jolt, he spotted the row of black bags, zipped up to cover the men worst hit today, sitting in one end of the room.

Jeff got up and walked slowly to the cot the doctor had pointed to; as it turned out Kevin had died just an hour ago, and was not yet black-bagged like the others. But he would be. Soon enough, he would be. Knowing that made Jeff hurt like hell. He couldn't even find the words.

But suddenly, as tears started forcing their way into his eyes as he looked down at his fallen friend, his eyes closed and his face surprisingly peaceful- and his chest and neck red with his own blood- fury swept into Jeff.

Suddenly, into the silence in the tent, he screamed, "Goddamnit, Kevin! If you had just kept your fuckin' head down and not fuckin' volunteered for shit like I _fuckin'_ told you to do, your stupid ass would still be fuckin' _alive_! STUPID _FUCK_!"

Then Jeff spun on his boot heel and strode out of the tent, so furious and miserable he could barely think. He stormed out past his platoon leader, who watched with sympathetic eyes. He'd lost buddies in Iraq, too, and knew from experience there was nothing you could do about it. The young tank driver would just have to be left alone for now.

Jeff would never be able to remember, later, where he went or when he got back to the barracks. But he did remember that he'd never known such hurt in all his life. He'd had buddies go home wounded or dead before, and it hurt every time- but never, ever before had Jeff lost a childhood friend. He'd done a lot to encourage Kevin to join the Army, believing it would be another great adventure for the both of them. Now Kevin was dead… some adventure it had turned out to be.

Jeff wondered, briefly, if there was indeed a God up there, and if so if He would ever forgive Jeff for the role Jeff believed he'd played in Kevin Harkin's death. Then Jeff realised it didn't matter, because no matter if God forgave him, Jeff might never be able to forgive himself.


	4. Chapter 4- Circles

**Chapter IV- Circles**

* * *

"So what happened next?" Lilly Rush asked quietly, Scotty Valens sitting silently beside her in the interviewing room. The young sergeant had given this last part of the story haltingly, having difficulty finding words many times. It was obvious the issue still pained him deeply.

"I volunteered to take Kevin back to the States," Sergeant LaSalle said. "I figured maybe… maybe it would do me some good. Maybe it would do his dad some good, if somebody he knew instead of a random soldier showed up on his doorstep and gave him the news."

"Did it work out that way?" Scotty asked. From his tone, he was doubting it.

LaSalle shook his head, smiling sadly. "Nope. Things rarely work out like they do in the movies, you know? I think Mr. Harkin barely even knew who I was; he hadn't seen me for two years, and with me in my dress greens at ten o'clock at night… well, anyway, he sure didn't care who I was once I told him. He just got this distant look in his eyes, like he was just totally shutting down inside. Then he shut the door in my face."

Rush asked, "Did you go to his funeral? Kevin's?"

LaSalle nodded, speaking one bitter word. "Yeah."

He paused, unsure of what to say next. "I showed up in my dress greens; almost didn't. Kept thinking about it- should I, shouldn't I? Finally I went ahead with it. Saw Staff Sergeant Donley there in his blues- we didn't really talk. He knew why I was there, I knew why he was there. That was, maybe, October 2005. I try to forget the day, honestly. Anyway, Mrs. Harkin was nice enough; she appreciated me coming, saying what I could for Kevin at the funeral. But Mr. Harkin… he was different."

Jeff LaSalle all but literally winced at the memory; even now he remembered how unpleasant Mr. Harkin had been. "I tried explaining what had happened; tried to say I was sorry. Mr. Harkin just didn't wanna hear it. He started out blaming me for Kevin signing up, and ended up saying- or seeming to say- that it should have been me."

"What'd you do?" Valens asked.

Jeff smiled sadly. "What could I do? I wasn't about to argue with a grieving dad at his son's funeral. I just said I was sorry, turned around and walked away. I haven't seen Kevin's parents since. I don't know if Mr. Harkin still hates me, but I wouldn't blame him if he does. That's his right, because I probably did get his son killed."

Jerry Harkin's words echoed in Lilly Rush's mind; "I blamed a lot of people for Kevin's death."

"You got yourself one hell of a record with the Army, Sergeant," Valens said. "You got transferred to mechanized infantry half of your first tour, dragged a wounded man to safety during a firefight and patched him up on the spot. Two tours in Iraq, promoted to Sergeant after just a few years in- sounds like a good soldier to me."

Jeff glared at the detectives bitterly. "What the hell would you know?"

Ignoring that, Lilly Rush asked, "So what happened after that?"

Jeff shrugged. "I finished my second tour. Got a Bronze Star for merit, Purple Heart, all that good shit."

Rush looked at the young sergeant curiously. "Did you think about going back for a third tour?"

Jeff shook his head. "No," he said simply. "I'd lost buddies in Iraq before, but never somebody like Kevin. Guess losing a childhood friend shook me up; I just couldn't do it anymore after that. They transferred me to places like Saudi Arabia, doing firing demonstrations and teaching those Arabs how to shoot the export-model M1's we give 'em. I also got to go to Germany, worked with Leopard gunners and even beat some of their best guys in a marksmanship competition." Jeff smiled a little. "That was pretty sweet."

Finally, when the interview ended and Jeff got up to leave, each of the detectives held out a hand. "Thanks for comin' in, Sarge," Valens said, and Jeff nodded, shaking hands with each of them. "I hope you guys find who really broke into that shop," he said in a voice that made him sound every inch the Army buck Sergeant, "Because I promise you… Staff Sergeant Donley didn't. He was a good man, better than I'll ever be. He blamed himself so much for sending guys like me and Kevin off to fight, knowing some of us wouldn't come back. He was no criminal, detectives. And he deserves better than to be remembered as one."

Two days later, as Lilly Rush was preparing to go home for the night, John Stillman swung open the door to her office, his eyes focused and his face tense. "Lilly, you'd better get over to Lyle Rourke High," he said. "Jeff LaSalle just walked in there with a gun."


	5. Chapter 5- Ending Dreams

**Chapter V- Ending Dreams**

* * *

It took perhaps ten or fifteen minutes to drive from the Philadelphia Police, Homicide Department offices to the suburban high school where Staff Sergeant Mike Donley had done so much of his recruiting. Lilly Rush was there in five. Night had long since fallen, and only some janitors working late had seen the young blonde sergeant walk in, retreating quickly as he screamed at them to get out or he'd shoot. He was still there now, a Colt Python revolver in one hand as he sat on one of the cafeteria tables. Lilly Rush got in past the police barricade, entering the front doors and passing a few SWAT operatives warily guarding Jeff LaSalle, who was just as warily eying them. He was wearing his green dress uniform.

Spotting the blonde detective approaching him, LaSalle shifted his gaze but made no effort to raise the revolver. He even managed an ironic smile, and a polite nod. "Detective Rush," he said, then laughed a little when he saw she was wearing a Kevlar vest. "I think the Philly PD worries too much sometimes, ma'am."

"Gotta take precautions, Jeff," Rush said. "You're not thinking straight."

That drew another laugh, this one very bitter. "No, as a matter of fact, ma'am, I'm thinking straight for the first time in years. I have no business going on living, having a good Army career, when I helped make sure my best friend came home in a bag."

"Soldiers die in wars; they always do. You're not responsible for what happened to Kevin."

LaSalle just shook his head. "He listened to me as much as any friend he ever had. He wanted to join the Army 'cause his dad was against it, yeah, but he wouldn't have gone if I'd told him it was a bad idea. He listened to me, and that sniper never would've killed him if I hadn't helped put Kevin in that Humvee. I gave that sniper the shot."

"Kevin wouldn't want you to be doing this, Jeff. He'd-"

"He would've buried me and moved on!" LaSalle suddenly burst out, his eyes tearful. "Kevin would've known what to do, what to say. He would've got on with his life. Me? I have dreams all the time, where I'm still at Fort Knox, still in Iraq, fighting the war. Every time, Detective, that dream has Kevin make it through the day and come home. He lives and comes home with me. And then I wake up every time, look around in the dark, and realise none of it's real. I'm always gonna be fighting the war, Detective. I gotta do this because I'm never gonna leave. Kevin deserved better than this. He trusted me, and I let him down. I failed him."

"What good does it _do_, Jeff?" Rush asked as the fluorescents buzzed overhead and the blue-and-red police lights flashed outside. "Who does it help if you add your name to the list of dead soldiers? Would Kevin feel any better if you joined him?"

The young sergeant just stared at the revolver, his eyes burning. "He would have moved on, Detective."

"So do does it help if you do this, now? Will it make your own parents feel any better, having something new in common with the Harkins?"

LaSalle just stared down, gazing at that revolver with a fascination Rush very much didn't like. "It won't help anything. Or anybody. But I gave up any chance to go out honourably when I persuaded Kevin to sign up. All I want now is an end."

Rush tried something else. Looking again at the two V devices on his ribbons, the Purple Heart and Bronze Star on Jeff LaSalle's uniform, she tried reminding him of the honour so many- including Kevin Harkin, no doubt- would have seen in that. "You did more than the Army expected of you, Jeff. More than anybody would have asked. You're a hero."

That did get Jeff to look up; he snapped his gaze up to Rush again, jabbing a finger and suddenly raising his voice in fury. "Don't you _SAY_ THAT!" he screamed. "Don't you _SAY_ THAT TO ME!" Jeff shook his head, miserable and tired. "I'm tired of hearing it. Everybody says that like it's so easy. Like you can just say it, and that's all that matters. The ones who care don't know what we go through over there. And the ones who know don't care."

Rush tried moving towards Jeff a little. "I'm going to take a step towards you now, Jeff. Okay?"

The sergeant eyed her warily, but nodded. He then looked down at the revolver again. "I'm real tired, ma'am. Haven't slept good since the war."

"Jeff," Rush said cautiously, "just put the gun down. It's not gonna solve _anything_."

Jeff LaSalle shook his head. "No, it won't," he agreed. "But it'll end _something_."

Lilly Rush's eyes went wide; the blonde young sergeant had turned around the revolver, setting it in place under his chin. He thumbed back the hammer.

Rush sprinted forward, but the tanker sergeant had expected that. He said something- Rush would realise later it had been "Sic Transit Gloria Mundi"- and fired. The one shot exploded in the open space of Lyle T. Rourke High School's cafeteria. The young man who'd gone off to fight the war but never really come back toppled over, the revolver discharging again as it fall from his hands and clattered to the stone floor. The SWAT team jumped, but Lilly hardly noticed as the second round from the Colt buried itself in the wall across the room.

Lilly Rush swore, furious and saddened at the same time. When did these things ever end? She would never really remember later how long she stood there, but finally she turned as a firm hand set on her shoulder. It was John Stillman, his face grim. He looked at Rush with real concern in his eyes, real sympathy. "You can't save 'em all, Lilly. Just remember that. You can't save 'em all."


End file.
